


Once Upon a Time

by Arinia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Affectionate Crowley, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 03:02:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19781905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arinia/pseuds/Arinia
Summary: "Crowley was beginning to think Aziraphale had far too much bloody time on his hands. What else could explain the sign stuck to the window with calligraphy two centuries out of date adorned with atartanborder of all things?"OrIn which Aziraphale begins reading to local children at his bookshop and Crowley is grudgingly forced to participate.





	Once Upon a Time

**Author's Note:**

> Based off two Tumblr prompts: "Aziraphale reading to Crowley" and "Aziraphale reading to kids and Crowley pretending to be bored but secretly listening super intently would be really cute! (Also the kids totally know that Crowley loves listening to his Angel read even if Aziraphale doesn’t”. All quotes come from John Milton's _Paradise Lost_.
> 
> Content warning for a mention of homophobia, but no homophobic slurs are used. Otherwise, this is pure fluff for these two idiots that won't leave my muse alone.

Aziraphale had far too much bloody time on his hands.

That was the only logical conclusion to explain the sign that greeted Crowley that morning, an overly indulgent cappuccino in his hand for one overly indulgent angel. Calligraphy that was at least two centuries out of date swept across the paper adorned with a tartan border that had frankly _never_ been in date. He had to read it once, twice, just to be sure the remnants of the scotch from last night weren’t wreaking havoc on his faculties. 

No, he was most assuredly quite of sound mind, which perhaps meant one overly indulgent angel was still enjoying all the fun 100 year old scotch could provide. Otherwise, what could possibly explain _this?_

“You know, angel, I’m beginning to think the whole averting-the-Apocalypse thing was a bad idea,” he called out, stepping over an errant black sock that had been a casualty of the night before. The scotch had all been cleared away and everything was at it should be but the sock; how very typical of Aziraphale to be so passive-aggressive in his reprimanding. 

“What was that, my dear?” Aziraphale emerged from round a bookshelf, and the warmth that spread through Crowley’s fingertips and into his chest most certainly was only because of the drink he was miracling warm for Aziraphale. “Ah! Is that for me?” Fingers brushed together as Aziraphale took the offered drink, making sure to linger, eyes dancing in the bright morning sun.

That flutter from his traitorous human heart seeing that beaming smile? Pure coincidence. 

“Not having to do any thwarting is obviously taking a toll on you.” He pushed his sock between them, a dastardly little smirk on his face as an affronted little huff escaped Aziraphale.

“I still do plenty of thwarting!” 

“No, clearly you don’t. One, because you didn’t say thank you for that blasted 7£ cappuccino; not very angelic of you at all-”

 _“Thank you_ , Crowley,” and the sock was pushed back in his direction, Aziraphale doing a rather poor job of hiding his smile behind the lid. 

“And two, because no angel on duty would be putting a sign in his bookshop for a ‘Children’s Reading Hour’. With a tartan border, no less.” 

It tread on dangerous, delicate ground, even now, nearly one year later and so much changed between them. Aziraphale’s smile flickered, fingers surreptitiously tightening around his drink, and Crowley felt that old fear trickle down his spine; the one that filled his dreams with charred pages and desperate screams. 

The sunglasses were pocketed, a casual gesture to an untrained eye, haunted blue eyes meeting yellow, urging him closer, until he could feel the warmth radiating from Aziraphale’s skin. 

“I thought you hated people in your bookshop,” he began again, voice low and inviting, filling up the space between them and chasing old ghosts away. “Not like I haven’t forgotten you casually walking round with me on your shoulders when that one woman wouldn’t leave your precious _Divine Comedy_ alone.” He got a smile for that one, a mixture of sly and sheepish that would fool anyone but Crowley. His fingers acted of their own volition, as always these days, running over plump lips and feeling the smile grow underneath the pad of his thumb. “You really think a bunch of snot nosed kids aren’t going to muck this all up?”

Aziraphale hummed, lips puckering for just a moment, before carefully guiding his hand towards his own. “Perhaps, but nothing a little miracle can’t take care of. Besides, it’s giving back to the community, as it were! I hear so many stories of children these days and not being able to go anywhere without their ‘intelligent devices’-” and Crowley once again was left to wonder how on Earth _this_ particular angel had him wrapped around his finger, “that the art of reading a book is falling by the wayside!”

“Sounds sinful,” Crowley remarked with a shrug. He was rewarded with another little huff, round cheeks puffing out in a way that very nearly tempted a smile from him.

“Yes, it quite is. Which is why I’ve resolved to thwart your demonic influence once and for all. I won’t let you turn an entire generation away from reading.”

“Me? Oh, I’m retired, angel. A free agent and all. Must be thinking of some other demon.” 

Aziraphale’s eyebrows quirked upwards, and instantly Crowley knew he had been had. There was no denying that far too sweet smile, the tightening of their intertwined hands. 

“You know, I’m very happy to hear that, dear Crowley-”

“No.”

“Because if it is some other demon up here, interfering on _our_ Earth-”

“Whatever it is, Aziraphale, no.”

“Then I expect you’ll be only too happy to help me!” 

Crowley was beginning to regret spending the 7£ he had nicked from a pushy London commuter that morning on a bloody cappuccino (filled with a hedonistic amount of sugar, cream, and cinnamon). Aziraphale was giving him The Look; the one that widened laughing blue eyes and tilted a white blond head just so to the left, complete with a pout that was surely perfected in a mirror.

The Look that begged for a gloomy play to become a runaway hit. The Look that asked for crepes during a bloody Revolution. The Look that beckoned him to miracle away blue paint with the closest thing to a kiss he had dared at the time. 

“You’re terrible, you know that? Truly. I thought I was the expert in evil deeds.” The Look turned into a smile, and no angel, semi-retired or not, should ever look that self-satisfied. 

“Oh splendid! I was just looking for an opening act!”

If later on, one overly indulgent cappuccino happened to go cold far quicker than it should, well as far as Crowley was concerned, that was just the way things went. 

= = = = 

Crowley had put his foot down when it came to any sort of performance on his part, but Aziraphale had still managed to rope him into being an usher. Which Crowley naturally took to mean lounging on the top of a nearby table, one long leg idly swinging, as he drank vodka disguised as water (only because Aziraphale had _not_ taken kindly to undisguised vodka). 

A cozy little corner that had not been there before was tucked near the front street window, sunlight streaming in and passersby looking in with fondness. There were comfy pillows arranged in a semi-circle, that Crowley had saved from being brown and boring ( _They’re kids, angel, you bloody well think they like beige?_ ) and all manner of plush toys and cheerful drawings. 

Crowley had felt a strange emotion swell up at watching Aziraphale put a jolly expression on a whale he was painting, realizing in all the time they had known each other he had never known Aziraphale had an artist’s touch. Aziraphale must have sensed something, he always seemed to, especially now, because he raised Crowley’s hand to his lips and kissed it so softly that Crowley felt his throat tighten. 

The first day had gone about as well as Crowley expected. 11 years of being quasi-godfathers to one very regular human boy hadn’t prepared them for the natural chaos 20 energetic children brought. He could sense the magnitude of angelic miracles keeping precious books from chocolate stained fingers, so much so it was making his own demonic instincts stir and fester. Aziraphale could barely hear himself over the cacophony of voices; pillows being thrown, toys being fought over, and one little girl wailing that _Curious George_ was not being read that day. 

He had thought that would be the end of it, but Aziraphale’s infamous stubbornness wouldn’t accept defeat that easily. If that meant Heavenly and Hellish works melded together once more to temper wild children, well, nobody needed to know that but themselves. 

Week after week, the group grew. The room filled with enchanted young faces and doting parents, and Aziraphale’s soothing essence making everything feel light and welcoming. A local blogger dropped by, something which Crowley had to steer Aziraphale through, and that only increased traffic further. Never in two centuries at A.Z. Fell and Co been quite so busy, and Children’s Reading Hour quickly became a mainstay. 

And Crowley was there every week, alcohol in hand and bored indifference on his face. There were times Aziraphale tried to catch his eye, and Crowley would heave a dramatic sigh and take a giant swig. He rotated positions during the hour, one time going so far as to hang near upside down on an armchair, which caused more than a few giggles and earned him a petulant angel certainly not in the mood for cuddling that night. 

But, he was there. And Aziraphale knew he couldn’t ask for anything more. 

“This has rather been a success, wouldn’t you say?” Aziraphale had said to him one evening, stroking the hair of the head he found in his lap. Crowley had scoffed, launching into an exaggerated stretch that made the couch groan in protest. 

“I can hear Seuss begging from our side for you to stop reading the blasted _Cat in the Hat_. I might miracle myself deaf if I have to hear that one again.” The hand in his hair stilled for a moment, before sweeping the long fringe back from his forehead in a way that made his eyes slip shut.

“Well, it is popular with all ages. Even the parents delight in it. And not an intelligent device in sight when I’m reading it.”

 _“Smartphones_ , angel, for Hea-for the sake of everything on Earth. I swear you do that just to annoy me.”

“Oh hush, Crowley,” and lips found his before he could utter another word. 

= = = =

A plump, kindly man and a lanky, brooding one had rather become the subject of much chatter in their little corner of London. Children would sometimes run up to Mr. Fell in the park, pulling apologetic parents behind them, eyes filled with glee trying to guess the next book that would be read. Mr. Fell would crouch down, listening with all the attention in the world, as if each child was his own. And when the child would show up that week, Mr. Fell would greet them with a broad smile and little wink. 

Mr. Fell knew each and every one of their names, their interests and their grandest dreams. He’d take time after each book to talk with them, and once he had even come with most delectable sugar spun candies they had ever tasted. There was a warmth about him that seemed to draw everyone in, and if the little room by the window strangely seemed larger, no one paid much mind to it. 

The other man, dressed in black with fiery hair and perpetual sunglasses, never said much. Spider-like limbs draped over tables and chairs, an intensity rolling off him that chased away any thoughts of misbehaviour. No one knew his name, though 8 year old Tammy swore up and down Mr. Fell had called him _Crowley_ one afternoon behind a bookshelf. 

The man-who-might-be-Crowley had snorted with derision when Mrs. Williamson had asked if Children’s Reading Hour had been his idea, too. _I don’t read_ , he had said in a low and scary voice, and 10 year old Mark told anyone who would listen that the man-who-might-be-Crowley had eyes like a snake. 

Parents didn’t like him very much; muttering to themselves about why he was even here. After all, he made it quite apparent how boring he found this all; big yawns and lips twisted into an arrogant smirk. No one had ever seen him help out Mr. Fell before, and it was the subject of much gossip if Mr. Fell and the man-who-might-be-Crowley were together or not, and really, whether a nice man like Mr. Fell _ought_ to be.

But, children’s eyes and hearts are able to see things that adult senses have dulled to. The man-who-might-be-Crowley was terrifying, but it was clear to any child that he adored hearing the stories as much as them. Where parents saw a malicious smirk, children saw rapt attention. A lazy sprawl on an armchair was the man simply getting comfortable, gaze always turned towards Mr. Fell as his soothing voice read on. The man-who-might-be-Crowley was just as much of a comforting fixture as old Mr. Fell himself, and no child was surprised whenever Mr. Fell kissed the snake-eyed man, even if mean Mr. Miller had used a bad word when he saw it. 

Mr. Miller, for his part, never showed up again, though little Tommy Miller was always more than welcome, and the only one brave enough to sit near the man-who-might-be-Crowley. 

And the man-who-might-be-Crowley was filled with his own surprises, too. He’d sneak in chocolates that were passed around when Mr. Fell was reading, and make funny faces when he thought Mr. Fell wasn’t looking. One time, when Tommy Miller shuffled in, quiet and sniffling at the things his dad had been saying, the man-who-might-be-Crowley even let him doodle on his pale skin. _Draw some monsters there kid, make ‘em real scary. Mr. Fell doesn’t like scary._

But, it seemed to Tommy Miller that maybe the man-who-might-be-Crowley had been lying a bit to him, because while he was waiting for his mom to pick him up, he saw Mr. Fell trace his drawings with a smile on his face and murmur to the man that he should do that more often.

= = = =

A chilly rain lashed against the windows one early December evening as Aziraphale was tidying the now rather enormous Children’s Reading Hour corner. He tutted at finding a chocolate wrapper hiding underneath one of the pillows, shooting Crowley a withering glare that was met with a smirk in return. 

“Really now. I’ve asked you to stop doing that, Crowley.”

“Who says it was me? Kids love chocolate, and parents are always loading them up with that sugary crap to keep them quiet.” Aziraphale pursed his lips, miracling the wrapper away with an irritable flick of his wrist, and turning back to his cleaning.

Aziraphale had seemed tense as the Christmas spirit overtook London, and more and more harried parents were dropping their kids off in order to catch even an hour of peace. He was snapping at Crowley more, stiff at times in his embrace, particularly after a session of Children’s Reading Hour. Little tendrils of doubt were beginning to niggle at the back of his mind, because there were times Aziraphale looked at him the way he had before all this had happened, when there was no _our side_ but lines in the sand that couldn’t be crossed. 

Nearly two years had passed. Two years of blissful silence. Two years of fond smiles over breakfast, lingering kisses in a 90 year old car, and Aziraphale whispering three words to him that burned in a manner more euphoric than Hellfire. 

There was no way Crowley could ever return to those dark days. Not when he had tasted the forbidden fruit, not when he had finally tucked away Aziraphale deep into his heart, inked onto his skin in a thousand different ways. 

“So, your favourite holiday’s coming up,” Crowley had sidled up behind him, catching a delicious whiff of his musky cologne. “You going to do anything _festive_ for those annoying kids?”

“I was,” Aziraphale replied coldly, every muscle rigid as Crowley drew near. “I suspect you’ll be in the way rather than be useful.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t be a very good demon if I wasn’t, now would I?” Aziraphale still wasn’t looking at him, and that doubt burrowed deeper. Crowley ached to reach out, hating this chasm that had sprung up between them filled with clipped words and stoic silence. 

“Precisely. Which is why I think it’s probably for the best if you were elsewhere for Children’s Reading Hour.”

The words rang sharp and clear in the air, puncturing Crowley in all the worst places. He was back suddenly to two years ago, Doomsday bearing down on them and Hell on his tail, with an angel who looked him in the eye and chose Heaven over him. 

Two years ago Crowley would have turned on his heel with a snarl and left. Would have stewed that he was wasting his time, that 6000 years of longing would never be anything but his own destruction. He might drown in alcohol, or sleep a decade away; anything to block out the noise in his mind.

But, this wasn’t two years ago, and too much of their hearts had been fused together for Crowley to walk away now. Instead bony fingers tilted Aziraphale’s face towards him so their noses touched, and a soft voice, softer than any other demon could ever muster, asked, “Why are you so pissed at me lately?”

Aziraphale relaxed a fraction, and Crowley breathed in relief with him, the edges of their lips just barely touching. “I know what you think of this.” He gestured round the room. “You think this is silly and a waste of time. You’ve made it abundantly clear that... that my little project means nothing to you.”

It all clicked into place at once, and Crowley nearly let out a groan; at himself, at Aziraphale, at bloody Tommy Miller’s ignorant father just for good measure. 

“Aziraphale,” he cupped his face in his hands, and Aziraphale relaxed further. “I don’t hate this. I thought you knew that by now.”

There was an anxious wiggle, eyes darting to the side in shame and Crowley placed a delicate little kiss on his mouth to bring those eyes back to him. “Well you certainly _act_ as if this is beneath you. Hanging off the table and looking as if you’d rather be anywhere else. I’m sorry my reading bores you so.” 

Crowley eyed Aziraphale a long moment, the hurt obvious in the blue eyes that stared steadily back at him. He dropped his hands from his face, intertwining their fingers, and leading Aziraphale towards the back room. Aziraphale followed wordlessly, tension still not completely vanished, but he allowed Crowley to arrange his head in his lap, blinking up at him slowly under long lashes. 

A book materialized into his hands, and Aziraphale looked down with a start at a gorgeous old copy of _Paradise Lost_. Crowley could see Aziraphale put two and two together, gazing down at him, hardly daring to hope. 

“Are you sure? You wouldn’t rather... I don’t know, go out to the pub?” 

“Nah. You know I don’t read much. S’better this way.” Crowley tugged one of Aziraphale’s hands to his chest, breathing slow and deep, the way that always stilled Aziraphale in his darkest moments. The low light from the lantern and the grey-washed windows made Aziraphale seem even more ethereal, and Crowley felt that familiar surge in his heart at seeing such fondness directed towards someone like him. 

_“Of Man’s First Disobedience and the Fruit...”_

Crowley’s eyes began to slip shut, and the hand he had tugged to his chest crept upwards towards his hair; deft hands running through the long, fiery strands. He turned towards Aziraphale’s soft belly, pressing his nose into the worn vest and raining gentle kisses over and over. Aziraphale let out a tender sigh that rolled through his entire being, entering Crowley and chasing all the Damnation away.

_“I may assert Eternal Providence...”_

Aziraphale’s voice had always been rich and lively. Every word sang in the air with that other-worldly lilt, which should have made any demon cringe in hatred but only ever drew Crowley closer. This was different than when he read to scores of children every week; this was filled with adoration, with temptation, with thousands of years of souls seeking out each other. 

_“Th’ infernal Serpent...”_

A small smile tugged at Crowley’s lips, remembering only Aziraphale, donned in white, radiant and glorious. Drawn together even then, some other force behind it, one that each had privately thought must only be God, must only be Divine. Aziraphale paused, bending down to kiss the closed eyelids, and Crowley’s lips parted at the only blessing he’d willingly receive. 

_“Of Rebel Angels, by whose aid aspiring...”_

Crowley had always fretted over causing Aziraphale to Fall. A fate worse than death, one he could never forgive himself for bringing into this world. Every tentative step Aziraphale took closer to him was one step closer over the precipice. Their first kiss had nearly brought Crowley to his knees in horror, clutching Aziraphale close to him, as if to keep the Grace from seeping out.

_“Regaind in Heav’n, or what more lost in Hell?”_

But, Aziraphale hadn’t Fallen. He was here, just the same. Beige clothes and soft blond hair and twinkling eyes that drew in excitable children and outcast demons. His voice rumbled as he read aloud, hand never ceasing, a warmth cascading from a crown of fiery hair to the tips of his toes. _Paradise Lost_ had never sounded sweeter, more apt to their little life carved out in London Soho. Crowley sank deeper into the soft-coated words, filled up with Eternal Providence that no other being could possibly provide. 

= = = =

It was surely a Christmas miracle when 60 eager children raced into their favourite bookstore, heads filled with tales of Santa Claus and hopes of favourite toys, that it was the man-who-might-be-Crowley sitting in Mr. Fell’s usual seat. Yellow eyes glinted as he read to them all, a sight only children could discern. His voice shook and trembled and filled them with such awe and wonder that they could scarcely breathe. Mr. Fell was in Crowley’s usual seat, hands folded together, eyes shining under the twinkling lights. 

The man-who-might-be-Crowley was asked if he could read more often, eager hands grabbing at his black sweater, keen senses knowing that he was different, but not caring one bit. The yellow eyes flicked up to Mr. Fell, and truly, only Christmas could coax that smile from deep within.

“Well, only if Mr. Fell promises to read to me as often as he reads to you.” Mr. Fell let out a funny sound, like something was caught in his throat, hastily dabbing at his eyes.

“I promise, Crowley.”


End file.
